


Like Honey

by GeoffsEightGreatestMistakes



Series: fizzy citrus and smokey fire [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alpha Hank Anderson, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Human, Case Fic, Jealous Hank Anderson, M/M, Non-Consensual Kissing, Omega Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Pre-Relationship, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 17:02:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17770760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeoffsEightGreatestMistakes/pseuds/GeoffsEightGreatestMistakes
Summary: The heavy bass of the club music rumbles Hank's chest. He regrets everything, regrets picking up this case, regrets allowing Connor to drag him out here for some undercover thing.The bass is so loud it's making the amber liquid in his glass ripple. He's got a raging headache, and watching strange hands curl around Connor's hips on the dance floor is making it worse.





	Like Honey

**Author's Note:**

> decided to write out a [twitter thread](https://twitter.com/Bailey8GM/status/1092902172612837383) I wrote. It's becoming a habit haha. But it's fun!!! Hope ya'll enjoy this, because I _love_ writing this A/B/O hankcon au!!

The heavy bass of the club music rumbles Hank's chest. He regrets everything, regrets picking up this case, regrets allowing Connor to drag him out here for some undercover thing. 

The bass is so loud it's making the amber liquid in his glass ripple. He's got a raging headache, and watching strange hands curl around Connor's hips on the dance floor is making it worse. 

 

\--------------------------

 

The case they're on has been dragged out for too long. They knew who the victim's killer was-- the victim had been shot in their apartment, killed by the same guy who was dealing red ice throughout Detroit. The shooter was Alexander Santaro, a pencil thin, fuckhead Beta dousing himself in artificial pheromones to smell like an Alpha. 

He frequents a club downtown, most definitely peddling shit through a backroom. 

Hank and Connor had successfully tracked him down, but he was a slippery bastard. It was getting frustrating to storm into an alleged drug deal and find nothing. So now the two detectives sit in front of Captain Fowler’s desk, talking about how in the hell they’re gonna bring this guy in.

“We could do a stakeout,” Hank suggests. He’s had this idea before, he knows, and it’s been shot down, he knows, but he’s running out of ideas. 

“On what? The club?” Fowler sighs. They’ve been at this for hours-- called in shortly after lunch and now it’s nearing four. On Fowler’s screen-covered wall, they’ve got a list up of tactics. Some are crossed off, having been attempted and failed. Some are under ‘not allowed’; for instance, straight up busting into the night club with the SWAT and taking the whole thing down. Not allowed.

“Yeah,” Hank shrugs. 

“That’s not going to work. We’ve done that before,” Fowler replies. Hank holds back a groan. He rolls his head back, letting it loll against the back of chair. These chairs Fowler has in his office suck to no end. Hank’s ass is killing him. 

Hank lets his head tilt to the side, eyes landing on Connor.

Connor sits in the chair next to him, fiddling with the coin he always has on him. He’s deep in thought, completely silent as he stares off into space. Hank watches, instead of thinking about other ideas. 

He scans Connor’s profile, even though the Omega’s appearance hasn’t changed since the day he arrived at the precinct a few months back. He’s still got that damn scentblocker on-- the little, circular, peach colored patch just behind his left ear. Hank hasn’t smelled Connor’s fizzy peach lemonade scent in months, and he misses it. But Connor’s kept it on, getting awkward any time scents or scenting comes up. 

Hank sighs heavily, closing his eyes. “Fuck, if this guy had a record I’d kick down the door of his apartment right now.”

“We would’ve done that weeks ago, Anderson,” Fowler’s just as tired as Hank. 

Next to him, Connor turns the coin over in his hands. He stares down at the silver circle that’s slowly tarnishing from being handled all the time. 

“Are honeypot missions allowed?” Connor finally speaks up. 

Hank’s eyes shoot open, his head popping up. Within a second of the words leaving Connor’s mouth, he’s got some toxic form of jealousy and anger coursing through him. 

“ _ Absolutely not _ ,” Hank grinds out. 

Connor glances at Hank out of the corner of his eye, shifting awkwardly in the chair. 

“We don’t do those anymore--”

Fowler holds up a hand, silencing Hank. Hank’s jaw snaps shut, teeth clacking together. 

“I think it’ll work,” Fowler says. 

Hank wants to fucking  _ scream.  _

“Santaro uses fake pheromones to smell like an Alpha, so Connor going in… unmated…” Fowler trails off, glancing at Connor, worried he’s offending. Connor looks back blankly, and Fowler takes that as an okay. “Connor could approach him, and get him alone before we grab him. I think it’ll work.”

Hank’s nearly huffing, breathing sharply. He doesn’t like this at fucking all.  _ Connor?  _ Connor going undercover at a  _ club _ ?  _ Connor? Doing a… fucking sex mission?  _

Hank is well aware that Connor is unclaimed. He’s absolutely aware of his feelings towards Connor, but does he want to act upon them? Not at all. Connor’s got a good head on his shoulders, and if Hank came forward, he’d get Connor’s hormones going wild. He doesn’t want to take advantage of Connor, pulling that sweet Omega in just because of some pheromones. 

He didn’t want Connor to be stuck with an aging Alpha, either. 

He’s well aware of all of this, but the jealousy that flares up in his chest at the thought of Connor seducing some fuckhead fake-Alpha… it drives him  _ batshit.  _

“I don’t think we have any other options,” Connor replies. 

“Connor--” Hank says between clenched teeth. “You don’t have to do this.”

Connor turns a little, facing Hank. 

“I’m okay with doing it. I brought it up after all.”

That answer doesn’t appease Hank’s pure Alpha jealousy. 

Connor turns back to the Captain, pure determination in his eyes. “When can we do it?”

Fowler snorts at Connor’s eagerness. “It’ll be a few days Stern. We have to set it up and clear it with the higher ups.”

Connor nods, looking vaguely disappointed that he has to wait. Hank presses his lips into a flat line. Hank wonders if Connor’s disappointed he can’t do the mission sooner, or if it’s the potential excitement of catching Santaro. He doesn’t know, and quite frankly doesn’t  _ want  _ to know. 

“Anything else you two want to share with me?” Fowler asks. It’s obvious that he wants this meeting to end. 

“No,” Connor shakes his head. “We can work on other cases until you let us know.”

Fowler’s eyes turn to Hank. Hank shrugs, doing his damned best to keep from yelling.

“Nothing else,” he says. 

Fowler seems satisfied, and dismisses them. 

As the two step down into the bullpen, Hank glares at Connor. Connor pointedly doesn’t look back at Hank, despite feeling eyes on him. Instead, the Omega crosses the bullpen and calmly sits at his desk. Hank storms after Connor. He doesn’t stop at his part of the shared desk. He rounds to Connor’s side, slamming a hand down on the polycarbonate desk. The desk rattles at the force of it, startling Connor. 

A few officers glance over at Hank. 

There’s something sour in the air. Hank’s smokey, autumn campfire smell getting stronger. The calming warmth of it is getting too hot, almost burning. 

“What the  _ fuck _ ,” Hank growls. “What were you thinking?”

Connor’s looking up at him. Fear has his eyes wide, but the second they lock eyes, the fear’s replaced with bitter anger. 

“That type of shit is dangerous, Connor,” Hank continues in a low growl.

“Are you doubting me?” Connor hisses back. If Hank wasn’t as pissed off as he was, he’d step back in shock. Connor has never gotten angry like this. He’s annoyed fairly often, whether it’s a bad interrogation, Detective Reed, a broken coffee machine, bad internet… But  _ this?  _

This kind of barely contained anger?

There’s fire in Connor’s eyes. It scares Hank, but he doesn’t know if he can ever admit that. 

“I know what I’m doing  _ Lieutenant, _ ” Connor spits out the title like it’s poison on his tongue. He hasn’t called Hank that in weeks. They've gotten familiar enough that they're on first name basis. This kind of reversion hits Hank hard. “I’ve done these before, so I’m so glad that you trust me to do my damn job.”

Connor turns to his console, closing himself off completely. Hank's thankful that Connor's got a scent blocker on for once, he wasn't sure if he could handle the sour lemon of it. 

The fight leaves Hank. It seeps from his bones, hot rage cooling as it falls deep in his gut, turning into guilt. He just keeps fucking up--

But he says nothing. He swallows thickly, sliding his hand off of Connor’s desk like he’s a kicked puppy. He goes back to his side of the shared desk, sitting down. The atmosphere is stony now, and Connor doesn’t say anything or even look in Hank’s direction for the rest of the day. 

 

\--------------------------

 

The mission gets greenlit by the higher ups three days later, and four days after that they’re going through with it. 

Connor sits in his apartment, letting his twin, Niles, flit about. Niles insisted he help Connor get ready, and since Connor owns nothing but slacks, button ups, and knit sweaters, he reluctantly agreed. Niles was the clubbing type, despite his more impassive personality, so he had all the things Connor needed to blend in at a nightclub. 

So now Connor sits on the edge of his bed, feeling too exposed in his borrowed clothing. Niles forced him to put on a pair of skin tight, dark jeans that are so ripped they’re more hole than fabric. The revealing pants are paired with an equally revealing crop top. The sheer, shimmery iridescent fabric is cut small enough to expose the expanses of smooth, pale, lightly muscled stomach. 

Connor wants to curl his arms around his stomach. He doesn’t like being this exposed, but the mission requires it. Last time he did a honeypot, he got away with wearing his normal, everyday clothing… 

“You’re twitching again,” Niles sighs. 

“Sorry,” Connor apologizes. He sits up straight, head level. 

Niles is standing in front of Connor, eyeliner pencil in hand. Annoyance has his eyebrows pinching in. Connor feels a little bad, but he doesn’t wear eyeliner enough to not twitch. When Connor finally stills, Niles leans in close once more and continues on Connor’s makeup. 

“If you sit still, I can get this done quicker,” Niles scolds. Connor huffs out a sigh. 

Niles is nine minutes younger than Connor, but always acts like the superior, older sibling. It’s frustrating. 

But Connor sits still anyway, allowing Niles to finish up the heavy eyeliner and brush on some kind of iridescent highlighter onto the apples of his cheeks. Lastly, there’s some pale pink lip gloss, then Niles steps back. He looks satisfied with his work.

“Do I look like club material?” Connor asks. He’s about to bite his bottom lip out of anxiety, but realizes that smudging the lip gloss will force him to be here longer. 

“Yes, you look beautiful,” Niles deadpans. He walks over to Connor’s dresser, putting various makeup supplies back into his bag. 

Connor stands, wobbling ever-so-slightly. The black combat boots he’s got on are a little too big (they’re Niles’ of course). He crosses the room, stopping in front of the mirror hung on the back of the bedroom door. 

He looks himself over, turning slightly to look at just how fucking  _ tight  _ these jeans are. They cling to every bit of his lower half. Sure, his ass looks pretty damn good in these… but he still feels so uncomfortable. 

Niles appears next to Connor. His twin rests a hand on his shoulder. 

“You know your Alpha bear is going to have a heart attack when he sees you,” Niles remarks. Connor’s cheeks go scarlet, and he ducks his head. 

“I think you’re gonna kill is old heart,” Niles continues, chuckling at Connor’s reaction. 

“ _ Stop _ ,” Connor halfheartedly pleads. Niles shrugs. 

“Or maybe you’ll get lucky and he’ll finally have the balls to talk to you.”

“Niles--!” Connor protests. His head shoots up, meeting Niles’ eyes through the mirror. Niles has on his classic, inexpressive look. He does the whole emotionless thing well-- icy blue eyes blank and impeccable eyebrows unmoving. 

“Oh darling, you’re so blind,” Niles sighs heavily.

Connor, despite having all of the clues about Hank’s shared affection, refuses to believe that the Alpha would like him back. He pouts, crossing his arms over his chest. The tissue-paper thin crop top ruffles, barely managing to cover his pecs. 

“Whatever, I’m going to be late.” 

Connor steps away from the mirror, and out from underneath Niles’ hand. Niles falters a little, impassiveness flickering for a second. Then it’s back, and Niles watches as Connor picks up the (borrowed) leather jacket. 

Niles lets his twin leave the bedroom, knowing that Connor trusts him to lock the apartment after him. 

 

\--------------------------

 

Hank drums his fingers on the steering wheel. He had just texted Connor, saying he’s arrived, and Connor had responded in a second. Typical. Connor’s always been a lightning fast texter, making Hank feel clumsy in comparison. 

And sure enough, just as fast as Connor responded with  _ ‘I’m on my way down’,  _ Connor is appearing next to Hank’s car. Hank unlocks it, and Connor pulls the door open. Hank scans Connor,  _ absolutely  _ noting the wardrobe choice. 

The outfit… does things to Hank. 

He swallows thickly, shamefully staring at Connor’s thighs as the Omega sits down in the passenger seat. Through the rips in the dark denim, Hank spies creamy skin dotted with freckles. 

Then his eyes trail upwards, over an unzipped, worn leather jacket and shimmery crop top. Under the streetlight, the fabric of the top ripples blue, matching with Connor’s heavy blue eyeliner. 

And under Hank’s gaze, Connor blushes. 

“It’s Niles’... he helped me get ready,” he supplies.

“He’s good,” Hank comments, barely thinking before speaking. And typically, he’d regret whatever comes out of his mouth, but this time he doesn’t. Connor looks fucking  _ incredible.  _ And… and…. and he  _ smells  _ too _.  _

He’s got his scent blocker off for the first time in months. That little, circular, tan patch behind his left ear is gone, letting the car fill up with that fizzy peach lemonade scent. 

Hank’s mouth, honest to god, starts watering. 

It’s probably disgusting to let his Alpha take over, but possessiveness rises in his throat. Connor’s not his mate, but  _ Jesus Fucking Christ,  _ Hank doesn’t want anybody to see Connor in this outfit besides him. Nobody deserves to see such a work of art. 

“Aren’t we going to be late?” Connor says, snapping Hank from his thoughts. 

He was absolutely staring, and he looks away awkwardly. Connor does too, looking in the opposite direction. 

“Uh… Yeah,” Hank says, ever the eloquent linguist. To hide his awkwardness, he throws his old car into drive, and pulls away from the curb. Connor keeps his eyes on the window, away from Hank. 

 

Their drive was uncomfortable, as was the walk into the club. Neither said anything as they were let in by the bouncer. Once inside, neither  _ could  _ say anything. The music was intense; the bass was so heavy that the place was rumbling. 

Connor finally looked at Hank, lips parted like he was about to say something. Hank looked back, but just in time for Connor to minutely shake his head and look away. Together, the two walked towards the bar. 

They had gone over the plan with Fowler earlier.

They would stay off to the fringes of the club, waiting until they saw Santaro. Once they did, Connor would slip away, using just about any means necessary to draw Santaro in. From there, Connor would get the fuckhead drug dealer and murder alone so they could finally get him and wrap the case up. 

The plan was sadly simple-- Connor was allowed to take the reigns. He was the one calling the shots tonight. Rare for an Omega, and Connor preened under the attention. If all went well tonight, it’d look stellar on his record. 

Hank, shamefully, felt jealous. But as always, he said nothing and ordered a drink. He had to scream so the bartender could hear him, but it was okay once there was a whiskey in his hand. Connor had ordered some fruity, bright pink martini, sipping it delicately like he’s not in some sketchy as hell night club. If it was quieter, Hank would’ve made a joke.

They’ve been standing by the bar for about twenty minutes when Connor perks up. He puts a hand on Hank’s shoulder, leaning in close to talk. 

“Santaro just came in. I’ll give him five before I go over,” he says. Hank barely hears. He nods though, following Connor’s eyes. 

Santaro is dressed like an asshole. Baggy jeans pooling low on his hips, skin-tight shirt, and his unwashed, unbrushed hair tucked under a ratty green beanie. Hank nearly smells the chemical, artificial scent of fake Alpha pheromones from here. 

The two watch as Santaro slinks through the crowd, looking casual as he slips into the mass of dancing bodies. 

Connor gulps down the last of his drink. He’s still leant in close. So close that Hank can still smell that citrus carbonation, even though the club’s a mess of sweat, sex, and hormones.  He sets his empty glass on the bar, his hand sliding off Hank's shoulder. Hank didn't realize he'd miss the touch until it left. 

But he doesn't have the opportunity to say anything. Connor steps out of range, disappearing into the crowd. 

Hank's eyes follow Connor. He's supposed to be Connor's backup. So while Connor's schmoozing Santaro, Hank hovers in the background. 

And it's obvious Connor knows what he's doing. Confidently, he fits himself into the dancing mass. He sways and spins with the people around him, slowly migrating over to Santaro. As he does, he attracts gazes. 

Alphas, Betas, and Omegas are looking at him. He looks like a fucking  _ treasure _ , and smells like heaven. It’s no surprise that some stranger’s hands curl around Connor’s hips and pull him in close. Connor lets it happen, and Hank watches from afar. 

Hank’s still at the bar, holding an almost empty glass. The heavy bass of the club music rumbles his chest. He regrets everything, regrets picking up this case, regrets allowing Connor to drag him out here. It’s nearing midnight. He should be asleep by now. 

The bass is so loud it's making the amber liquid in his glass ripple. He's got a raging headache, and watching strange hands curl around Connor's hips on the dance floor is making it worse.

  
  


Then Santaro makes an appearance. Santaro’s just on the fringes of the dancefloor, allowing Hank to watch as he scans Connor up and down. Hunger fills his fake-Alpha gaze. Hank's stomach tightens. He knows that look-- predatory looks towards some Omega as if the person was just a piece of meat to be eaten. That kind of dehumanization makes Hank sick to his stomach, and this is only worse when he knows that that ‘ _ piece of meat _ ’ is Connor. 

Santaro slinks through the crowd, sliding up to Connor. The Alpha dancing with Connor slinks away, threatened by Santaro’s hard look. At the disappearance of the hands, Connor looks over his shoulder, meeting the fake-Alpha’s gaze. Their eyes lock, and Santaro’s bitter look fades. Connor turns, placing a hand on Santaro's chest. 

Hank watches Connor's lips move. He's leaned in close enough for Santaro to hear him. And whatever he says must get Santaro going because he slips his slimy hands around Connor's thin waist. 

Connor preens under the touch, subtly playing up the fact that he's Omega. He tilts his head, baring his throat and letting Santaro take a long whiff. And Santaro takes the bait, brushing his nose against the smooth, pale skin of Connor’s neck. 

The sight makes Hank's grip on his glass tighten. He bites back a growl, holding in the intense need to storm over and rip Santaro away. 

But they've got a mission, so he just downs the rest of his whiskey and slams the glass on the bar. The bartender on the other side takes that as a cue for another, and pours another glass of amber liquid. 

Hank takes the glass, and when he turns back to Connor, he sees that the two have changed positions. Connor's turned around in Santaro's grip, pressing his ass back against the guy's crotch and grinding obscenely. 

_ Fuck _ , Hank curses internally. There isn't enough alcohol in the world that can help him deal with this sight. 

He wants it to be him, instead of that pencilneck fake Alpha. But he won't admit that. Not now, and maybe not ever. 

So he watches Connor, heart aching and Alpha hormones raging. 

 

\--------------------------

 

The hands on Connor's waist are too tight. Too possessive. 

Connor feels like an object, like something to be used. Santaro is grinding against him, pressing Connor back against him from thigh to shoulder. He hated this. He hated the touch, the outfit, the thumping bass, the smell of the club, the sour martini he downed. He hates everything about this mission. 

But he wanted Santaro behind bars, so he would make the sacrifice. 

Santaro is warm against his back. And grimy too. The chemical smell rolls off him in waves, too strong because of all the fake pheromones. It makes Connor a little nauseous, but he bites back a gag and lets Santaro grind against his back. 

The thundering song comes to an end. It fades into another; this one has the same loud bass as the last though. 

Connor throws an arm up, slinging it around Santaro's neck and forcing him to duck. Connor pulls him close so they can talk. 

“Need some air, wanna join me?” He asks. Santaro laughs, fingers tightening possessively. 

“Of course babydoll,” he replies. 

Connor leads the way, curling a hand around Santaro's forearm and leading him away from the dancing mass. 

His eyes scan the bar, meeting Hank's for just a second. The second is long enough for Hank to understand. 

Connor had glanced at the blueprints of the club. He knew the direction of the emergency exit, and headed that way. Santaro followed, placing a hand onto the small of Connor's back. 

They reached the little hall that lead back to the bathrooms and the emergency exit. Connor's research had said that the emergency alarm on the back door hadn't been active ij years, so he got away with pushing open the heavy fire door. 

The chilly air outside felt like heaven compared to the humidity of the club. Connor took a few deep breaths, stepping into the alleyway. Santaro stepped out too, and let the emergency door slam shut behind them. 

Then Santaro was on Connor. 

Santaro pushed Connor up against the wall opposite the club, trapping the Omega up against the dirty bricks. His hands were heavy, gripping Connor's hips and keeping him pinned. 

A whimper left Connor involuntarily. 

Santaro took it as encouragement, capturing Connor's lips in a rough kiss. The kiss is too wet-- all tongue and no lip. But Connor has to keep it up, so he kisses the gross fake-Alpha back. Even if it sickens him to his very core. 

Santaro presses his crotch against Connor's. He’s placed his legs on either side of Connor’s, caging him in. The position’s uncomfortable, and Connor’s almost tempted to push Santaro away. But he doesn’t. He tilts his head, letting his lips be pried open by a tongue that tastes of cigarette smoke. He even puts his hands on Santaro’s chest, palms flat and fingers curling just a bit. 

Santaro’s about to start tugging on his belt buckle when there’s footsteps in the alleyway. 

Santaro pulls back with a heavy groan, ready to snap at whoever is interrupting them. His hands tighten on Connor’s hips-- hard enough to bruise-- and he bares his teeth as he looks at whoever is walking up. 

The wave of relief that washes over Connor when he sees who it is is indescribable. 

At the other end of the alleyway is Hank, with a gun in hand. 

“ _ What the fuck _ \--” Santaro starts to yell. His jagged, unkempt nails are digging into Connor’s skin. It hurts, and Connor whimpers against his will. 

“Alexander Santaro,” Hank calls, voice tight. “You’re under arrest for drug possession, possession with intent to deal, and murder.”

Santaro starts to defend himself. Half-vocalized words spill from his lips as he steps away from Connor. But Hank raises his gun, effectively shutting Santaro up. 

“Put your hands where I can see them,” Hank demands. Santaro obeys, holding his hands up in surrender. Connor stays pressed up against the brick wall, taking deep, heaving breaths. His mind is a flurry-- swelling Omegan hormones from the fierce kissing combating Connor’s intense hatred of said kissing. His body is telling him to keep going, and his mind is trying to take the reigns again. 

He misses Hank telling Santaro is rights, cuffing him up, and calling in for backup. He comes back to earth when Hank steps up to him. 

“Connor?” Hank asks, putting a gentle hand on Connor’s shoulders. Connor inhales sharply, blinking a few times. His vision comes into focus. Hank’s leant in close, barely a foot away. 

“Are you okay?” Hank’s eyebrows pinch in in concern. 

Connor shakily nods. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”

He repeats himself, shuddering. The leather jacket he’s still wearing is warm, but the chilly Detroit air still slips in and winds around his barely covered chest. 

Behind him, he can hear Santaro muttering angrily about ‘ _ fucking Omega’  _ and ‘ _ police pigs’.  _ It’s insulting, and Hank scowls over his shoulder. After a second, he turns back to Connor, and pulls him in close. Connor stumbles forward, right into Hank’s chest. 

“Hank--” Connor says. 

“It’s okay, Con,” Hank murmurs. He wraps his arms tight around the lean Omega. Connor’s got his cheek resting on Hank’s shoulders, arms uncomfortably squished between his chest and Hank’s. But the second he gets a lungful of Hank’s smokey, warm, August campfire scent, he’s okay with it. 

The smoke fills his lungs. It smells of toasting marshmallows in the middle of the woods; of camping out under the stars without a tent; of snuggling close under a blanket with a loved one as the fire crackles. 

Connor whimpers quietly, tucking his nose into Hank’s neck. He keeps breathing, in and out, letting the comfort wash over him. 

Hank, on the other hand, is nearly choking on Connor’s fizzy lemonade scent. It’s gone sour from stress-- to much sourness and not enough sugar. But it starts to mellow as they embrace. The carbonation still crackles, but the other fruit in the scent start to take over and calm the citrus. 

After a minute, they hear sirens in the distance. Hank doesn’t pull away when blue and red lights appear at the mouth of the alleyway. 

Santaro’s cursing up a storm now, trying to struggle out of his handcuffs. Hank watches over Connor’s shoulder. Officers patrolling in the neighborhood have come by to pick up Santaro and bring him back to the station. They’ll let him sit in lockup overnight, letting the guy stew until they interrogate him in the morning. 

Hank’s thankful that that’s the plan. Connor’s in no shape to keep working. He desperately needs to be taken home. 

When an officer comes up to them, Hank starts to pull away. Connor whines involuntarily, making Hank freeze. He looks down at the Omega in his arms, and slides an arm around Connor’s shoulder. He keeps Connor close, nose still tucked against his neck, but half-turns to talk to the officer. 

“Need anything?” Hank asks gruffly. He knows that’s probably rude-- but he cares more about Connor than Santaro, if he’s honest. From here, he can see another officer struggling to get the fake-Alpha into the back of the cruiser. Santaro’s putting up a hell of a fight, even though it’s obvious he’s not going to win. 

“No, just letting you know that we’re taking him back to Central,” the officer replies. “See you two in the morning.”

Hank doesn’t say anything. He nods, effectively dismissing the officer. They walk away, leaving Hank and Connor alone in the middle of the alleyway. 

“Hey, Con, I’m going to pull away,” Hank warns. As expected, Connor whines. “I know, I know, but we gotta get back to the car so we can go home.”

Reluctantly, Connor pulls away. 

He looks dazed and disoriented. Hank can only imagine the sort of hormones coursing through him. 

Hank keeps an arm around Connor’s shoulders, almost guiding him down the alleyway. They walk in silence, back to the car that’s parked a few blocks away. 

 

\--------------------------

 

Connor’s got his head leant up against the window. His eyes are closed, and he’s angled away from Hank. Hank, therefore, can’t tell how Connor’s doing. He drives nervously, gripping too tight on the wheel. He’s glad he’s still got a manual car. He doesn’t know what he would do with his thoughts if he didn’t have to focus on driving. 

They’re nearly at Connor’s apartment building when Hank coughs roughly. 

Connor stirs in the passenger seat, eyes opening for a few seconds. They flick over to Hank, then shut again. 

“Are you okay?” Hank asks, somewhat awkwardly. 

“Yes,” Connor nods a little. 

“Are you sure…? You’re out of it.”

“Yes, Hank,” Connor sighs out the words. His eyes open, and he sits upright. Then he shifts, his knees angled towards Hank now. “I’m just tired.”

His head falls against the headrest, a few stray locks falling over his forehead. His hair had been mussed up by Niles for this-- not slicked back like it normally is. The almost-curly look is good for him, Hank thinks. But he won’t voice that compliment. 

“I understand,” Hank nods. They stop at a red light, and he uses those few seconds as a chance to look at Connor. Connor’s eyes are right on him. 

“What did… uh… what did he do to you?” Hank asks. 

Connor sighs through his nose. “We just kissed. He was going to go further but you got there just in time.”

_ Oh thank god,  _ Hank thinks. 

“He was an awful kisser though. I’m going to need a long shower,” Connor laughs a little. It’s tired and dry, but it’s a laugh nonetheless. 

“Yeah, guy looked like a fuckin’ grease trap,” Hank jokes too, knowing that it’ll lighten the mood. The little smile he gets out of Connor is pleasant. 

Hank turns onto Connor’s street, easing onto the brakes.

“You did good, Connor,” Hank says once the car’s parked in front of Connor’s building. 

They were parked here just an hour or two ago. Connor had this nervous energy about him, and Hank felt electrified by Connor’s appearance. This time, it was the exact opposite. Connor was exhausted, and Hank wished he never had to see Connor dressed up for clubbing again. 

“Thank you, Hank,” Connor smiles sleepily. “Thank you for driving me home.”

Connor pushes the button to unlatch the seat belt. It starts to retract, and he starts moving. He pulls the jacket close with one hand, and the other reaching for the door.  

“No problem,” Hank replies, watching the Omega move. 

Connor pushes the door open, and swings one leg out before pausing. He turns, still smiling. 

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Hank exhales. A corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile. “I’ll see you too. Sleep well, okay?”

Connor doesn’t reply. He just keeps smiling, and turns away. Hank watches Connor’s back as he steps out of the car, and closes the door behind himself. 

He stays parked outside of the building until Connor’s safely inside. But even then, he sits out there for a minute. He stares at the building’s clear glass doors, getting too wrapped up in his thoughts. 

Connor had done amazing tonight. He played his part well, even if that meant getting forcibly kissed. And… and he  _ looked  _ the part. Hank was impressed with Niles’ work, he made Connor look downright delectable. 

Hank swallows thickly. He tears his eyes away from the building doors, and throws the car into drive. The old car creaks as it pulls away from the curb. 

Hank drives away, shoulders locked up tight as he tries to not think about Connor in that little tight outfit. He doesn’t think about Connor’s glossed up lips, or mussed up hair, or lightly defined stomach, or lean legs in ripped jeans. 

It’s hard, and he doesn’t manage to keep the thoughts at bay. He ends up taking a long shower, curling a hand around himself and thinking about the Omega’s beautiful body and voice. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> here's my [twitter/a> where I talk about dbh in general. then i have a collection of my ](https://twitter.com/Bailey8GM)[link twitter threads](https://twitter.com/i/moments/1092095171532066816) about a/b/o in particular!! some talk to me yall, i'm always down for chatting with you guys <3<3


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